%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| Do I recall the Sims' murders? Oh, yes I do. I suppose you can say that I have an intimate knowledge of that what shall I call it, crime, incident, life-altering event.Well, it certainly changed my life.I've never forgotten the details. Time and age have not dimmed my memory. All I have to do is close my eyes and it's as if I'm back there in Tallahassee in the year 1966. My spine tingles. My ears strain to hear if my presence is detected, but all I can register is my own rapid breathing as my pulse throbs. Muted voices murmur from the house I'm approaching. I creep forward in the damp grass and pause every few steps. I chuckle now because the detectives surmised correctly. I snuck out of the woods undetected, a shadow in the night. At the back door of the house, I pull on a pair of gloves and rearrange the balaclava masking my face. It proves to be a bit loose and it tends to obscure my vision. Obviously, one size does not fit all. I pat a pocket of the coveralls I've chosen to wear and the cold, hard butt of my handgun comforts me.Just as I expected the back door opens easily as I turn the knob. No one confronts me, or objects to my presence as I step into the darkened kitchen.So far,so good, and I smile. I waste no time and tip toe to the staircase. Again, I cock my head and scan for any hint of alarm. From above, the family I stalk continue their conversation unaware of their fate. I stifle an urge to giggle. With exaggerated care I climb the carpeted steps marvelling at the lush thickness disguising my steady rise.At this point, I admit, a line of cool sweat trickled down my shirt. I shivered. At the landing, I grip my weapon of choice and tug at the slipping balaclava one final time. I cannot believe no one has noticed me, or stopped me. I step without hesitation into the master bedroom and I raise the gun to silence the screams in mid shriek. A giggle bursts from me. Oh, the family before me do not appreciate how ridiculous they look. Their eyes refuse to blink as they quake and quiver. Like exaggerated cartoon characters, they stuff hands into their gaping mouths.I have frightened them, me. I wave the gun and they scurry together sobbing and clinging. I wrench open a bureau drawer and discover a handful of panty hose which I toss at the shaking daughter. I order her to blindfold and gag her parents. She nods numbly when I ask if she understands. When this is achieved, I command that she restrain them and I test she has trussed them tightly. Without warning I shove the mister of the house, Robert Sims, onto the bed and before he can protest, or struggle, I shoot him in the head. The missus, Helen, attempts to shield her daughter, Joy, and push her towards the door. A bullet to the leg topples her to the floor and while she writhes and moans I truss up the girl. I drink in the odour of fear pulsating in the room.I straighten to my full height and rock on my heels. Joy crumples to the floor tears streaming down her face and soaking her nightgown. I shoot her in the head and her mother jerks trying to kick out at me. The guttural groans irritate me and I then shoot Helen one, two, three times. My trigger finger just spasmed. My heart skipped a beat and I almost jumped out of my skin when Joy rolled towards her mother's body. I squeezed the trigger, but my bullets were spent.I raced downstairs and fumbled for the first large knife I could find. Back in the blood-splattered bedroom, I lashed out and slashed over and over. Pausing to catch my breath, I satisfied myself that my victims were deceased. No one squirmed. No one gasped. In no hurry, I sauntered out the kitchen door without a backward glance. All my senses seethed as if electrified. I disappeared into the trees stuffing my balaclava into my pocket and balling up my stained gloves. I tossed my coveralls, the mask, and the gloves into an industrial waste container as I strolled home. The gun made a discrete splash as it sank into a silent stream.I slipped into my own bed as the first sirens wailed. No one ever suspected me. I revel in that. Of course, if I had been careless and left clues, let alone a clue behind, the police officers and paramedics ensured I'd never be incriminated. Those blundering fools contaminated the crime scene, didn't they? They trampled all over that house without thought to finding anything. They muddied the waters so to speak. Who could prove I was there? Who am I ? Why did I commit this horrendous act? Well, why should I reveal my identity now? I got away with murder. No one ever suspected me. Perhaps this was my first chumming of the Florida waters. I will admit this. I have a natural inclination for killing. It makes me feel alive. Is that perverse? Okay, okay, I will leave this obscure clue just because I can. The two surviving Sims daughters know me. They consider me a friend in fact. Isn't that delicious?(904 words) April 9th Prompt: The Oct. 22nd, 1966 Tallahassee, Florida murders of Robert Sims, his wife Helen and their youngest daughter, Joy. Never solved. No suspects ever charged. No enemies, no discernible motive. What happened ? Why? Who did it? |
| The Plain of Jars? Although I am familiar with glass jars, I suppose 2,000-year old jars could be constructed of stone. They'd be a bugger to lift though. And where are the lids? Isn't it a given that jars have lids that seal? Were there once lids scattered about? Were they smashed? I'm presuming these lids were designed with less heavy materials and thus fragile. What did these stone containers hold? Could they have been olive, or pickle jars? Imagine a giant reaching into one of these stone urns with his fingers and spearing a juicy, crunchy pickle. Perhaps this giant fancied a cocktail or two of an evening to unwind. With two-thousand olive jars he'd have quite the stash for his signature martinis. Once the containers became empty, I envision a giant child using them to scoop up insects which he or she collected and sadly tortured. As the child aged the urns lost their allure and were tossed. This plateau in Laos could well be a rubbish heap. Who would carry that many jars about? They were discarded and forgotten. Just how were these stone jars created? How did they come to exist in a grassy plain? I might have an idea. Is it plausible? Does it stretch the realm of possibility? Agatha sighed. Finding a hobby to wile away the long hours had produced far more than she'd anticipated. If she were honest with herself, her creations occupied too much space. They were quickly filling up the yard and they were bound to be noticed by her husband. As a wife accompanying her man on his raids raised eyebrows. Her new duty involved keeping the home fire burning. She could and did do that. Everyday she stoked an impressive fire and then waited. Agatha fretted and chafed. She paced and wandered, but never too far from the fire. She yearned for the dragon confrontations and the razing of villages. She missed the screams and the frantic scurrying. Watching a blazing fire alone did not compare. She needed something to keep herself busy. The roaring flames and the steady heat inspired Agatha. What could she do that would not compromise her fire duties? Could she craft something that required that ready heat? Agatha could still remember the cool clay oozing through her fingers as she sculpted it into pots. Figuring out the spinning pottery wheel had necessitated total concentration and while she learned to coordinate her hands and feet, she pined less for her past life of bloodlust. She poured all of her pent up feelings into her stone jars. She hummed. She molded. She pinched. No two were formed alike. Each acquired its own shape and revealed its form when it rose from the fire she guarded. Of course, Agatha's pottery shadowed her own considerable girth. Nothing too dainty or indelicate sprang from her rough, immense hands. Once she wielded a broad ax with the best of them. Agatha sighed and dropped yet another fresh jar onto the green grass. Hands on hips she surveyed her stonework scattered about. Yes, she had mastered this skill. Perhaps it was time for a new one. What could she put into her jars? Tiptoeing amongst her creations, Agatha snorted. Of course, she could learn to make preserves, or pickles. She had already proven that this giantess could do anything. Hubby returned home with all manner of delicacies scavenged during his forays.(571 words) Thursday, April 8 Plain of Jars Location: Xiangkhoang Plateau, Laos More than 2,000 large ancient stone jars are spread across a plateau in Central Laos. Some stand 10 feet tall and weigh several tons. Archaeologists estimate the jars are 2,000 years old, but their purpose is unclear. The most common theories are that they were used as funeral urns. What do you think these urns were for? |
| Yes, what did happen to the three fellow lighthouse keepers? How could three adults vanish without a trace? What calamity befell them? Well, I'm certain a helicopter did not pluck them from the island and whisk them away to obscurity. This mystery unfolded in 1900 and helicopters were not yet a viable thing, or mode of transportation. According to accounts of the day this island, Eilean Mor, existed under the effects of a heavy mist that cloaked it and made it impossible to see. Even today a helicopter would find it difficult to navigate this terrain. For these same reasons commandos did not drop from the sky and abscond with the missing men. They'd have been flying blind by the seat of their pants. In researching the lighthouse of the Flannan Isles off the west coast of Scotland, I learned that it is accessed by a hefty 160-step climb. Surely, the keepers would, could, and should have heard and witnessed the arrival of anyone, or anything in the measured time it would take to reach the lighthouse. In other words, no one could possibly sneak up on them in a blitz attack. And if by some happenstance an intruder did manage to breach the defences, he or she would most likely be too winded to risk permanent harm to themselves with a show of force. Were the three keepers garbed in heavy, woolen kilts during the immense storm that blew in? I imagine the wind gusted. Perhaps it buffeted their kilts and lifted the men as if they were kites? Were they spirited away, far away? Who could resist against such a strong natural force? Maybe just maybe the heavy, wet kilts hindered movement and tangled themselves about exhausted legs as the men struggled to maintain their balance in the reported raging storm. Could they have stumbled down those steps, or tumbled? That would be a considerable fall with abrasions and contusions at the least. A concussion is possible. I can see the injured keepers staggering with the loss of equilibrium. One misstep and a precipitous dive onto the jagged rocks and churning waves below might result in a battering and drowning. Most likely the keepers were soaked and 'frozen to the bone' if they were outside during the storm. Pelted and slashed by a downpour and wind-propelled salt water might they have succumbed to hypothermia? Suffering with severe symptoms they'd experience exhaustion, confusion, memory loss and drowsiness. This can and does play out in minutes. How could they rescue themselves? The Flannan Isles are known as the Seven Hunters. Could this refer to the existence of seven kelpies? Kelpies are believed to be supernatural water horses able to shape-shift into the human form if need be. Did all seven kelpies abduct the lighthouse keepers, or did a trio initiate a raid? Was there a sudden swoop from the storm-shrouded sky? During the thunder and lightning were the men vulnerable? Had the fierce storm aggravated the kelpies? Were the keepers sacrifices meant to appease the seven?(506 words) PROMPT Wednesday, April 7 The Flannan Isles Lighthouse Disappearances In 1900, three keepers of the Flannan Isles Lighthouse off the west coast of Scotland disappeared under the strangest of circumstances. The lighthouse was manned by a three-person team (Thomas Marshall, James Ducat, and Donald MacArthur), with a fourth man rotating in from shore. On Boxing Day (December 26) of 1900, the relief keeper arrived to find none of the lighthouse keepers present. The only sign that anything was amiss was an overturned chair near the kitchen table. No bodies were ever found, which has led to endless speculation. Theories range from drownings to abduction by foreign spies, a ghost ship, or a giant sea monster. Whatever happened back in December 1900 at the Flannan Isles Lighthouse, we may never know. So, tell us what happened to the lighthouse keepers! |
| Prompt: Tuesday, April 6 Ghost Ship: The Mary Celeste On December 4, 1872, a British-American ship called “the Mary Celeste” was found empty and adrift in the Atlantic. It was found to be seaworthy and with its cargo fully intact, except for a lifeboat, which it appeared had been boarded in an orderly fashion. But why? We may never know because no one on board was ever heard from again. In November 1872, the Mary Celeste set sail from New York bound for Genoa, Italy. She was manned by Captain Benjamin Briggs and seven crew members, including Briggs’ wife and their 2-year-old daughter. Supplies on board were ample enough for six months, and luxurious—including a sewing machine and an upright piano. Commentators generally agree that to precipitate the abandonment of a seaworthy ship, some extraordinary and alarming circumstance must have arisen. However, the last entry on the ship’s daily log reveals nothing unusual, and inside the ship, all appeared to be in order. Theories over the years have included mutiny, pirate attack, and an assault by a giant octopus or sea monster. In recent years, scientists have posed the theory that fumes from alcohol on board caused an explosion that, as a result of a scientific anomaly, did not leave behind signs of burning—but was terrifying enough that Briggs ordered everyone into the lifeboat. Give us your opinion of what happened. Maybe you were even there?! If you are reading this, my journal, I must be long departed from this earth. I hid this recounting where no man would think to look. Well, I kept it from prying eyes and salacious tongues while I still breathed. This must mean that the walls of my home have been torn down. They were stout walls, they could not have fallen. Renovation or rebuild? Yes, it's of no bearing. Now the truth will out. This then is a firsthand telling, my recollection of what became of the people aboard the Mary Celeste. I swear on their memory that this is the truth. We set sail from New York under a cloudless sky. All of us anticipated a smooth crossing. I'd never been to Italy and I looked forward to visiting this exotic country. While this could not be considered my first ocean passing the others treated me as a newbie. I had not signed on to be a scullery maid, but the cook needed an assistant. The captain lent him me to keep him from grumbling not that the cook complained less. He always barked his demands and I became twitchy. I'm afraid I spilled more than one pot and dropped my fair share of dishes. During the day, I scuttled about under the deck unaware of time or weather. After the evening meal and after the cook had slumped off to sleep full of grog, I crept up to the deck to inhale deeply of fresh salt air. All the noises were familiar and comforting. Creaking and groaning responded to the slapping of the waves. Flapping sails pulled at their metal moorings which clanked. One sound cut through all of this though. From the captain's quarters a melancholy wave of notes wove themselves 'round and 'round. Once I peered into a misty window to see Mrs. Briggs swaying as she stroked the piano keys. I did not recognize the tune. It did not resemble any of the sea shanties I could sing. It had a haunting quality. Night after night, these piano chords invaded our senses. All of us began to stumble and mumble. We lost the ability to reason. We quarreled. We lost our appetites. The cook ignored his duties and I had no one to order me about. No one rigged the sails. No one stood at the ship's wheel. We were drifting. One evening amidst a dense fog, a rough hand shook me from my stupor and shoved me up the steps to the deck. Two of the crew were battling with heavy ropes for the swinging lifeboat. They struggled as if in slow motion and the captain shouted. His words were snatched away, but he gestured at the lowering boat. I nodded unsteady on my feet. With the lifeboat bobbing and butting the ship, we climbed down to it, one by one. I had no idea why we seemed to be abandoning the ship. Mr. Briggs had the authority and I simply obeyed. With a mighty heave from some of the men, we separated from our craft. I shivered to see the empty-eyed stare of our captain. We all avoided eye contact as we clung to the thin walls battered by the sea. Wave after wave crashed against us. No one offered to row and so we sat in silence. Time evaporated, minutes, or hours I cannot say. Something jostled us from both sides. The captain arose suddenly as if to stand, but no, he'd been snatched. I watched in horror as he did not resist. I caught glimpses of long flowing hair framing a pair of glinting green eyes as he seemed to be pulled into the sea. A tail, a powerful scaled tail wrapped his torso. I heard splashing as the dark water churned. One by one everyone left the lifeboat in the same manner. Not a one called out, or protested. I recall my feeble thrashing and my desperate attempts to breathe. I awoke alone on a sandy beach. Gasping, I crawled away from the surging surf. Time ceased to exist. I survived for what may have been months, I don't know. A steamer passing by rescued me and whisked me to England. I never divulged my true identity nor did I speak of the ordeal. I had been accepted as a castaway. Who would believe me anyway? Mermaids are supposed to be mythical creatures.(approx. 670 words) |
| Prompt for Monday, April 5 The Crooked Forest Location: West Pomerania, Poland This Polish forest lives up to its name, with hundreds of peculiar pine trees. Several hundred pine trees were planted there in the 1930s and grew with an almost 90-degree bend at their base, making them look like fishing hooks. Some believe that a technique or human tool was actually used to make the trees curve this way, while others speculate that a winter snowstorm or some other damage could have given this fascinating forest its interesting shape. Give us your own creative reason why the trees are this way. The brown bears of Poland are a comfort-loving bunch. After a long day of foraging for food and frightening the odd hiker, they long for nothing more than a comfy spot to rest their weary bones. To this end, the early bears climbed up into trees each night. In this particular forest of pine trees this meant pushing up past prickly needles that gouged at tender bits of the anatomy and teased sensitive noses with a pungent odour. Stout branches were sought. The sleeping position required a combination of dexterity and balance. A sudden sneeze, a twitch, a mistimed stretch, an unconscious rollover, or a robust breeze resulted in a thudding fall. Nothing disturbs sound slumber like a teeth-rattling return to earth. The bears had already experimented with curling up upon the forest floor. Not a one enjoyed pokes to their ribs from roots and twisted tree limbs. Leaves and dirt clung to their matted fur. When rain slashed them they'd only burrow deeper and awaken in a cold puddle. This only exacerbated the bears' morning grumpiness. For a brief time, the unhappy bears had entertained the brilliant idea of manufacturing their beds. They brain-stormed and scrounged the forest for materials. They envisioned a perch amongst the trees that would support their dreams and their bulky bodies. Alas, the decaying leaves and ragged twigs could not be woven into the hammocks they craved. Cubs had learned that jumping and swinging from swaying immature trees created great fun. Despite the rough-housing the pine trees snapped back upright. Sometimes, the younger bears napped in these makeshift cradles. Before long, exhausted bears began leaning against the trunks of the growing pine trees too tired to search for a slumber spot. They barely had energy to yawn. The supple trunks would bend just enough to relieve the weight from weary paws. They'd discovered the equivalent of a green recliner. Bears could and did sleep suspended above the hard, uncomfortable ground. Of course the fidgety slumberers slid awake, but the effort to return to sleep proved minimal. No more arduous climbs. No more bone-jarring nods to gravity. Just lean and snore. Cross your arms over your chest, or let them dangle. Night after night, the pine trees supported reclining bears. This in turn forced the tree trunks to bend and conform to the constant weight. Pine trees are stubborn survivors. They will adapt rather than break. Many of the less physically -inclined bears would lounge during daylight hours in their pine recliners. To their delight and with vigorous daily efforts, their new furniture molded itself to their appreciative frames. These Polish bears created the ultimate in sitting satisfaction.(545 words) |
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